


Never Again

by EmilyNorth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Double Penetration, F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24097558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilyNorth/pseuds/EmilyNorth
Summary: Those Slytherins make Hermione itch, in all sorts of interesting ways.Originally written in 2006, not DH-compliant
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini
Comments: 38
Kudos: 318





	Never Again

**Author's Note:**

> A/N 1: Originally begun for the IATQO Monthly Challenge back in May 2006. Theme: New Beginnings, Kink: Sensual Materials (i.e. silk, satin, velvet, leather, etc). I didn’t finish by the end of the month, held off on finishing to read HBP when it came out, and then held off some more to _mourn_ for the characters JKR mistreated before finally pulling this together by that August. This was posted _way_ before Deathly Hallows so it goes in quite a different direction from canon after HBP. Just pretend that everyone lived; that Harry, Ron, and Hermione got help from the others on the horcruxes, like sensible people; that the Order found new headquarters (because really, why _didn't_ they?); and that Draco defected from the Death Eaters because of...well...reasons. You'll see. :-)
> 
> A/N 2: Posted here by special request from MadWeb. I hope it lives up to your memory!

Chapter 1:

It really was the most delicious dream. Four hands, four lips, two tongues, and two _very_ hard cocks were rubbing against her, rubbing all over her, driving her crazy with sensation while whispering such deliciously naughty suggestions to her and to each other that she couldn’t stop shivering. A husky chuckle from the body pressed against her back vibrated through her, making her breath catch as his strong arms wrapped around her, steadying her against him and spreading her thighs, positioning her for the man in front of her who was aligning his straining erection between her legs. He smirked at her just before sliding deep inside her, and she could have sworn she felt her heart stop at how _incredible_ he felt inside her. Everything was perfect, until…

“Oi, Hermione!”

Hermione’s eyes flew open, immediately and instinctively landing on the small fireplace in the corner of her bedroom where, outlined in green flames, she saw the face of her best friend, Harry Potter.

“What in blue blazes are you doing still in bed?” he groused. “You were supposed to meet me here ten minutes ago!”

Hermione’s eyes went comically wide as she scanned the bedroom. Sunlight was pouring in the window; much, _much_ too much sunlight, considering she had _planned_ to wake up just a bit after dawn. Her eyes jumped over to the clock, and she immediately sprang out of bed, cursing fluently in ancient Greek as she grabbed her dressing gown and a towel and rushed out toward the bathroom. 

“Right then,” Harry said a moment later to the empty room. “I’ll just tell everyone you’ll be along directly then, shall I?” The fire went out in a puff of green smoke.

Meanwhile, Hermione was busily taking the fastest shower of her adult life while continuing to curse herself roundly—in Old High German this time. She couldn’t believe she had forgotten to set her alarm clock. _Scratch that,_ she scolded herself as she scrubbed frantically at her hair. _You can **easily** believe that you forgot to set your alarm since you know exactly **why** you got distracted._

Never again, _never_ again would she knock on her flatmate’s door when he was _entertaining_ company. He’d answered the door in boxers he’d obviously just thrown on, and the sight of his nearly-nude body had made her mouth go dry. It only got worse when she finally managed to tear her eyes off of his bare chest and looked over his shoulder. His boyfriend was clearly naked in the bed behind him, and while crumpled blankets hid her view of his lap, her overactive mind had little trouble filling in the blanks. It took every ounce of control and self-possession that she possessed to stammer out the question she had come to ask him and listen to the answer. When their conversation was finished, she’d immediately rushed back to her room where she’d tugged off her clothes, grabbed her vibrator, and brought herself off in less than five minutes with an orgasm that hit so hard, she nearly bit through her lip keeping herself from screaming.

It was little wonder that she had been so distracted that she had forgotten to set her alarm, but the result were still inexcusable. How could she have slept in on _this_ day, of all days? If she didn’t get there on time, she’d never forgive herself. More than that, _Ron_ would never forgive her if she missed so much as a minute of his very first game as keeper for the Chudley Cannons. And what would she say? What kind of excuse could she give him for running so disastrously late? How could she admit to her friends that she had forgotten to set her alarm because she had been busy fantasizing about amazing sex with Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy? They barely accepted that she had, somehow, managed to become somewhat-friends with the pair since moving in with Blaise. Knowing that she felt anything more for them than friendship would probably make Ron and Harry’s brains explode.

She’d have to add “Never again interrupt Blaise after he and Draco have shut the door to his room” to her list of rules of “How to Live with Blaise without Causing Problems.” Rule number four: Never again let Blaise take the first shower of the morning. (She did _not_ need a repeat of the week when she was late to work every day because she’d lost track of the time while standing naked in a steam-filled room that smelled of Blaise’s shampoo.) Rule number nine: Never again enter the kitchen when two male voices can be heard inside. (Draco had a fondness for snacking on spreadables licked off of Blaise’s cock. Catching them with chocolate sauce had been bad enough, but the second time she walked in on them, he’d been using peanut butter. Hermione always stuck peanut butter sandwiches in her bag when she thought she wouldn’t have time for an extended lunch. She did _not_ need the taste of peanut butter to turn her into a raging nympho.) Rule number fifteen: Never again, under _any_ circumstances, look for lost shoes under the living room couch. (The things she had found underneath the sofa on the one memorable occasion had had her blushing for twenty-four hours straight. After that, if she was missing a shoe, she summoned it. If that didn’t turn it up, she’d pick out a different pair of shoes.)

If the list got much longer, she’d have to either find a new flat or go utterly out her mind. There were twenty-eight never-agains on the list so far, and she had only been living with Blaise for six months. Her life was being ruled by never-agains as she fought hard to maintain her peace of mind. It was a losing battle, and she knew it. After all, she could never quite bring herself to add to the list the only “never-again” that stood any chance of making a real difference: Never again watch Blaise and Draco while they made love.

Her obsession with Blaise and Draco began the summer before she turned eighteen, just after the disastrous events at the end of her sixth year. When Snape and Draco fled from Hogwarts, leaving death, destruction, and the body of Albus Dumbledore behind them, there wasn’t really anywhere for them to go other than to the Dark Lord’s side. If Lucius’s Gringotts account hadn’t kept him out of Azkaban when Fudge the Corruptible was in charge, then the odds of Draco or Snape bullying, bribing, or blackmailing their way out of trouble after committing unforgivables were slim to none with Rufus I’ll-arrest-anyone-who- _blinks_ -suspiciously Scrimgeour at the helm. Even as Draco dreaded the punishment he’d receive for not fulfilling his mission unaided, he’d been certain that no punishment Voldemort could concoct would be worse than what he’d face if he stayed behind. 

As chance would have it, he was wrong. 

Oh, not about the punishment, itself. He got roundly scolded and derided and generally verbally humiliated in front of the rest of the Death Eaters following which he had to grin and bear it through a few rounds of the standard Crucioed reprimand, but after that, the punishment portion of the evening was done, and the celebrations began. _That_ had been the part that truly caught Draco off-guard. While Voldemort was annoyed that Draco hadn’t killed Dumbledore as he had been ordered, the Dark Lord was still quite glad that the old menace was dead, and that the rest of the attack on Hogwarts had taken place as planned. In general, Voldemort was in a festive mood. And after spending fourteen years without a body, when he was in a festive mood, there was only one thing he wanted to do. 

It appeared that, along with her ruthless determination, Tom Riddle had also inherited from his mother quite a taste for pretty boys. And Draco was a _very_ pretty boy, who deserved something of a reward for his excellent work with the vanishing cabinets…and since Lucius was no longer there to keep him out of the “grown-up” parts of the festivities, there was nothing to prevent Voldemort from giving Draco the “honor” of an invitation to his bed.

Shortly after two in the morning, Voldemort retired to his chambers, accompanied by Snape whose skills apparently earned him the “privilege” of being Voldemort’s first plaything for the evening. Voldemort liked to give his toys his undivided attention, and had his chosen playmates form a queue outside his door so he could call them in one at a time. Draco was fifth in line, right behind his aunt Bella who was so busy tarting herself up for her lord and master that she didn’t notice when he mumbled something about finding a loo and hurried away, hoping to remain unnoticed. Luck was with him (or rather, lust was with him since the rest of the Death Eaters had followed their lord’s example and were quite busy screwing each other into the floor), and no one paid any attention to Draco as he slipped out the back door and flat-out ran to the apparition boundaries. Serving Voldemort and pledging life, fortune, and honor to him was one thing. 

Shagging him was quite another.

He knew he couldn’t go to the Ministry; they were far too deeply in arrest-now-and-avoid-asking-questions-altogether mode. And he was certain that Hogwarts was crawling with Aurors, which left that right out, as well. He only knew about the Order of the Phoenix through reputation, but he knew enough to know that they were his best bet in his brilliant plan to trade Death Eater information to gain some safety from Voldemort’s affections. There was one family that he was absolutely certain belonged to the Order, and two members of that family that he was reasonably certain he knew how to find…it was just a matter of working up the resolve to go and face them, something he found easy enough to do when he reminded himself of the alternatives. Apparating to the silent, empty streets of Diagon Alley at three in the morning, he curled up in the doorway of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, just below a sign for U-No-Poo, and waited for Fred and George Weasley to arrive.

All things considered, the twins showed remarkable restraint toward Draco when they discovered him there the next morning. He was delivered to the rest of the Order (making temporary use of the Burrow until they found new headquarters that Snape wouldn’t know about) without a single visible bruise on him. (Of course, it’s hard to spot bruises on a large, yellow canary who is suffering from a violent nosebleed and can’t stop vomiting. It would seem that the twins were a bit peeved to discover the use he had made of their Instant Darkness Powder.) 

Once they were persuaded to give him the antidotes to return him to normal, Draco was finally able to offer the assembled Order members blueprints of Malfoy residences, lists of Death Eaters, and every bit of information he had acquired as long as they kept Draco bloody well _out_ of Voldemort’s bed. 

If Draco had come to them claiming a crisis of conscience, saying that he couldn’t stomach the thought of harming innocent children, or attacking muggles unable to defend themselves, or trampling on the weak to gain more power and riches for himself, they would have dismissed him immediately. Draco Malfoy, defender of the oppressed? Not a chance. Draco Malfoy, protector of his own arse? Now _that_ , they could believe. Within hours, a whole team of transcribers were positioned around Draco, jotting down every detail he spouted. It took nearly two weeks of practically round-the-clock work to gather all the information Draco could give them, and months afterwards to sort through it all and determine its strategic value.

Draco, meanwhile, was busy making himself comfortable in the brand-spanking-new headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix, purchased shortly after he joined them. Unfortunately, Draco’s idea of making himself comfortable seemed to include making everyone else as _un_ comfortable as possible. Once he’d spilled all his intel, he had no useful function whatsoever. He couldn’t do any field work since the whole purpose of the arrangement was to keep him out of sight, and it was an exercise in futility to try to convince him to help with research. As a result, all he could do was hang around the house and be as much of a bloody _nuisance_ to have around as was humanly possible. He criticized everything (and everyone) he came across. He bitched about the food, whined that his room was damp and his bed was hard, and was clearly put out when the other residents refused to wait on him hand and foot. He pouted and sulked and hunted up fragile items with sentimental value belonging to the rest of the people who lived there so he could “accidentally” break them and then smirk at their reactions. 

Only Remus lived at the headquarters full time, but the rest of the members of the Order were in and out constantly, especially Hermione, Ron, and Harry who used the place as a combination safe house and research post while they searched for the remaining horcruxes. They, along with the rest of the Order, had various personal items that they kept at the headquarters, in case circumstances forced them to make an unexpected stay. Having Draco Malfoy rooting through their things didn’t make anyone very happy. Ron was in favor of hexing the ferret with a permanent leg-locker curse (and there were a few others who seemed inclined to agree) when Hermione came up with a Brilliant Idea. In one of his endless (heedless) attempts at peacemaking, Remus had asked the blond what he used to do at home or at Hogwarts when he wanted to keep himself occupied _without_ going through others’ belongings. Draco’s answer, “Blaise,” had been taken by most of them as another attempt to rile them up. Only Hermione realized that he was serious, and that Blaise Zabini could prove to be the solution to the whole problem. 

Following the example of his incomparable mother, Blaise was unaffiliated with either side, but Hermione knew enough about him to know that he would probably be willing to align himself with the Order members, as long as they made the offer attractive enough. Hermione also knew that Blaise’s biological father’s estate had been tied up in litigation for years due to a tiny dispute over the illustrious Mr. Zabini’s cause of death. Since Blaise was the inheritor instead of her, his mother hadn’t bothered to step in and “get any stickiness with the Aurors smoothed away” as she usually did following her husbands’ deaths and Blaise, despite his efforts, hadn’t been able to make any headway on his own. Hermione took Kingsley with her when she went to speak with Blaise. Two days later, an owl arrived informing Blaise that since the investigation into his father’s death had been closed, all the liquid assets of his newly inherited estate had been transferred to his personal vault at Gringotts. The owl found him at Order headquarters, where Blaise was in the process of moving into Draco’s room, as per agreement. 

The results of Draco’s new roommate were immediately appreciable. Oh, Draco continued to whine and complain and was still rude and obnoxious to all the Order members he encountered, but he had a lot less time to make trouble considering how many of his waking hours were booked solid with shagging Blaise every way known to wizard, and a few that he seemed to have made up all on his own. They were young, healthy, and living with people who actively _encouraged_ them to do nothing with their days but mate like crazed weasels. Was it any wonder that they complied?

Blaise had been there for less than a week when Hermione’s obsession began. To her credit, it wasn’t as though she _set out_ to be a voyeur. Blaise and Draco simply had no sense of modesty. They’d shag anywhere, on any moderately flat surface, with little to no warning, and absolutely no concern for who might be watching. (Draco, attention-seeking git that he was, actually seemed to enjoy having an audience.) She hadn’t been looking for them when she stepped into the parlor to try and find where she’d left her favorite quill, but there they were, all the same, stark naked and glistening with sweat. Draco had Blaise bent over a massive wooden desk and was pounding into him hard enough to make the desk—an ancient, claw-footed piece that weighed a ton—rattle with the force of his thrusts. Draco was silent as he happily devoured the side of Blaise’s neck, but Blaise was cursing up a blue streak, calling Draco names Hermione had never even _heard_ of before while he begged for more. 

The sight of them—ivory on top of ebony—the sounds they made, the smell of sex so thick in the air that she could almost taste it on her tongue had Hermione so instantly and overwhelmingly aroused that she forgot to breathe until spots glowed in her vision and she nearly passed out. On shaking legs, she stumbled back to the room she and Ginny used whenever they were there and collapsed on the bed. She whimpered in frustration as she struggled out of her clothes, her trembling hands unable to move as quickly as she wanted, until she was naked with her legs spread wide and as many fingers as she could fit shoved inside her cunt _hard_ , over and over again, making her pant and growl and grunt in a way that she _never_ had before until she reached down with the other hand to pinch her clit and _came_ so hard that it made her burst into tears, sobbing and gasping for air as she shook from head to toe, downright terrified of the intense pleasure still washing over her. That night, on her way back to her flat, she bought her first vibrator.

It wasn’t as if she’d never felt arousal before. She’d felt those bewilderingly pleasant tingles from time to time when her eye caught on a particular smile, or a graceful pair of hands, or a lean pair of thighs straddling a broomstick. And she was no stranger to fantasies. Her detail-oriented mind had no trouble building up elaborate scenarios involving deep kisses and skilled caresses that made her feel warm all over while she stroked herself shyly in the safety of her bed. 

But sweet _Merlin_ , it had _never_ been like _that_. She’d never been turned on that fast, never been that wanton in her desires, _never_ been that rough in their execution, and hadn’t even known it was _possible_ to come that hard. It was like she’d spent her life in a kiddie-pool and had been suddenly thrust into the ocean. It was overwhelming and terrifying and so incredibly _amazing_ that she started finding lots of excuses to stop by headquarters whenever she had a chance. She hadn’t been a deliberate voyeur the first time she watched Blaise and Draco, but she certainly was after that.

As the weeks passed, her obsession deepened, made worse by the realization that she and Blaise were actually starting to become something that vaguely resembled friends. That was unexpected. Blaise, to put it mildly, was not the friendly type. He was prouder than a hippogriff, more enigmatic than a sphinx, and more dangerous to provoke than a blast-ended skrewt, so people tended to keep themselves at a rather considerable distance from him whenever possible. In all the years she had known him, Hermione had always been vaguely intimidated by him. She had never seen him anything other than perfectly composed, without a single thread of his clothes out of place, generally silent, never distracted, and constantly alert with his large, almost golden eyes always watching, always judging and, from the expression on his face, always finding the rest of the world distinctly lacking. To someone as openly passionate as Hermione, such cold calculation seemed almost inhuman.

The first time Hermione saw him behave like a human being was when she watched his naked body writhe under Draco Malfoy’s touch. Even more than the sensuality of the act they performed, the way that sex had the ever-so-contained Blaise Zabini utterly unbound and unrestrained was enough to make her shiver. It had been difficult to see him as a man back when she thought he had ice water in his veins instead of blood. Once she knew just how hot that blood could pump under the right circumstances, she found she couldn’t _stop_ thinking of him as a man. And that was just the first step. 

The next step, if possible, came as even more of a surprise. She knew, of course, that Blaise was intelligent. His hand didn’t shoot up to answer every teacher’s question the way that hers always had, but there was no way to really hide magical talent in a school of witchcraft and wizardry. There were simply too many sink-or-swim practical demonstrations. But lots of wizards were intelligent. Harry was occasionally intelligent. Ron had some random sparks of intellect at odd moments (usually involving a chess board). Hell, Draco was surprisingly intelligent, for all the good it did him. Blaise’s intelligence was different from theirs not because he was inherently ultra-brilliant, but because he had such an appetite for knowledge that he couldn’t bear _not_ using his mind. Typical modes of relaxation bored him. Vacations made him antsy. Inactivity preyed on his mind. The Order had assumed that he would be content with having no task other than to fuck the living daylights out of Draco. They were wrong. When they gave him nothing mentally stimulating to occupy himself, he quickly found an occupation all on his own. 

Hermione discovered his new hobby when she walked in to the library at five in the morning, ready to begin work again on her researching, to find a scroll of parchment next to the notes she had left out. The precisely penned note said that she must not be as smart as he had thought if she wasn’t consulting the Cheyvez Compendium. Hermione tracked down the book…and discovered that her anonymous advisor was right; it _did_ have some of the information she needed. Breakthroughs in research always distracted her from everything else, and she didn’t give a second thought to the parchment until she arrived the _next_ morning and found yet another piece of parchment, commenting on the progress she had made the previous day with added suggestions for where she might go next. And so it began.

Hermione liked to work in the morning. Those few hours before the sun rose had been her haven of quiet and solitude in Gryffindor Tower, and the habit carried over when she was in the Order headquarters as she used the precious bits of silence to accomplish the bulk of her work. Blaise, on the other hand, was a night owl, prowling around the house, bored out of his skull, after everyone else had gone to sleep—and becoming increasingly involved in Hermione’s research. They never discussed it, (in fact, they rarely spoke to each other during the day,) but they built a mutual respect and appreciation through the bits of parchment left for each other along with the research that had become _theirs_ instead of hers.

She should have felt guilty, developing a friendship with someone and then spying on his sexual habits at every opportunity. She _did_ feel guilty, actually…but she didn’t stop. The better she knew Blaise, the more arousing she found him, in a slow-burn-fever kind of way that got under her skin without her even realizing it and got stronger every day—classic Blaise. And in spite of her best intentions, she had to admit to herself that she had always found Draco attractive, in a much more immediate, in-the-moment, heart-racing, temperature-climbing, kiss-or-kill sort of way that was _absolutely_ classic Draco. He was rude and arrogant and obnoxious and condescending and snide and brilliant and cutting and devious and delicious and exciting and seductive and had been the face in her fantasies since she was _fifteen years old_ and finally gave up on the idea that Ron would ever have any _idea_ of how to handle her in a relationship, much less give her anything resembling pleasure in bed, and…and that was that. Blaise was attractive and desirable, and Draco was attractive and desirable, and when the two of them were together…

Hermione started buying the batteries for her vibrator in the large, economy packs; she was tired of it running out of buzz just when she needed it the most.

Chapter 2:

When the war ended, the Order headquarters disbanded. The building was locked up and they were all, frankly, relieved to let it go. The war was over, and it wasn’t needed anymore. It was finally time for all of them to get on with their lives. Hermione was initially relieved to say goodbye to Blaise and Draco. Sure, she and Draco had learned to tolerate each other rather well, and she and Blaise had come to work well together and had, through it all, ended up as somewhat-friends, but she knew separating herself from them was the best thing she could do. Without Blaise and Draco around, flaunting themselves and their lush, irresistible sexuality in plain sight where any inquisitively-minded girl could be affected, she’d surely be able to clear her mind and work her way past her ridiculous obsession. 

Because that’s all it was: just a silly little fixation that made her believe she was something that she really _wasn’t_. The lust-driven, sex-obsessed, cat-in-heat with a well-stuffed shoebox of sex toys and a driving need to orgasm a bare minimum of once a day wasn’t really _her_. She was Hermione Granger: nerd extraordinaire. Hermione could help you with your income taxes. If you needed a root canal, Hermione was your girl. But humping and bumping wasn’t Hermione’s thing. Really, it wasn’t. She wasn’t sexy or sensuous or erotic or exciting. And in spite of all the pleasure she’d found with her hand in her panties and images of Slytherins dancing in her head, she knew it had to be just a fluke. She was…just emotional because of the war, and because of the danger they were all in. With all that tension built up, it was inevitable that she’d find some sort of outlet, and if that outlet was a bit out of character for her, what did it really matter? The war would end, and everything would go back to normal. The way that she watched Blaise and Draco, the way she _sought out_ opportunities to watch them together, and the way she responded to the sight didn’t really _mean_ anything. Of course it didn’t. She wasn’t that kind of girl when the world wasn’t at war.

So when the war ended, and she bid farewell to the rest of the Order and started out her life on her own, this odd addiction of hers would end, too. She’d be back to normal. No more odd, irresistible urges. No more explosive solo sessions. No more voyeurism or eroticism or isms of any shape and kind. She’d put all thoughts of Blaise and Draco behind her, and all the odd feelings the two of them had stirred in her would go away of their own accord. Out of sight, out of mind. Hear no evil, see no evil. Living a life free from the path of temptation, and all of that. 

But what was that other cliche? Something about the path to hell and a lovely pavement compiled from good intentions? 

It wasn’t a problem at first after she bid Draco and Blaise a very final sort of farewell. The end of the war left her monstrously busy, with all the interviews and celebrations and other such nonsense, not to mention preparing to start her new job. For the first few post-war weeks, she found that she was too worn out to even _think_ of enjoying a little stress-relief at night with her favorite toys (and her favorite mental images). But before too long, her pace eased up and she found herself once again with time on her hands. Too much time. More than enough time to notice that she was, to her surprise, experiencing symptoms of withdrawal. 

She grew moody and irritable and had trouble sleeping. She lost her appetite and developed a string of nervous habits to work off her excess energy. She spent a lot more time in her favorite sex shop, buying new toys she’d never even heard of just a few months earlier. She even branched out from toys into male-on-male videotapes. It wasn’t difficult for the shop keepers to discern just what appealed to her taste, and before long, they started putting things aside that they knew would appeal to her. When she walked in one day and they showed her a “just in” videotape featuring a dark-skinned boy and his white-blond partner on the cover, she bought it without a second thought, and didn’t even bother to read the information on the back of the box. She was, therefore, shocked when, in the middle of the darker man pounding the living daylights out of the blond boy, the two men were joined by a woman. Sure, it was a blonde woman with enormous, clearly manufactured breasts, but the response Hermione had to the image was electric. 

She had considered (hell, she had _watched_ ) every imaginable permutation of male-on-male action between the videos she had bought and the live shows Blaise and Draco had provided so many times, but menage-a-trois was an entirely new concept. Imagining Blaise and Draco’s faces on the video’s porn stars images was enough to set her blood on fire, but when she imagined herself as the girl who joined them, it drove her to such a point of lust that she dug out the unopened tube of lubricant while casting a splitting spell on her favorite dildo to make it two-headed. As the video played out in front of her, she proceeded to teach her body the wealth of sensations available from these brand-new combinations and positions. She always had been an eager learner. In the moment that her desperate, screaming, soul-wrenching orgasm hit, she had an epiphany. 

This was her. This sweaty, sated, debauched-looking woman still shaking from a truly excellent orgasm while trying to determine if she had the energy for another round was _her_. It really was. After years of thinking that she “just wasn’t the kind of girl” who could feel things like that, she had finally come into her own as a sexual being. The changes in her that she had noted since the first time she saw Draco and Blaise were not just a phase or a momentary aberration. She wouldn’t outgrow her feelings or move past them or talk herself out of them. No longer was she just the dusty, bushy bookworm she had always viewed herself as being. Oh, the bookworm was still there, but from that time forward she would be a sexual object every bit as much as she was an intellectual one. It made her feel more complete, more alive, more aware of herself, and more _certain_ of herself than she had ever been before. Even if no one else ever saw her like that, even if the rest of the world viewed her as sexless and undesirable, this sensual hunger inside of her was a part of her that would not go away. For the first time she could remember, she felt like a woman, a _complete_ woman, with everything that a woman had to offer a man. It was _quite_ a nice feeling.

On the other hand, the depth of her feelings for a particular pair of men that she’d like to offer herself to was nowhere near as pleasant. She had thought that her crushes on Draco and Blaise would go the way of all crushes and fade slowly away. They didn’t. Instead, it appeared that as she increased her sexual experimentation, her hunger for that particular pair of men got stronger, not weaker. Rather in the manner of a Frankenstein monster, they had, all unknowingly, brought her to sexual life, and every sensual appetite she acquired made her long for them all the more. Videos weren’t enough; she was going crazy with longing for the real thing. 

She didn’t think of approaching them. She knew better than to think that either Blaise or Draco would ever consider allowing her to join them in bed. They were out of her league on so many levels and for so many reasons that it was laughable to even think of it. Offering herself to them would only end in her humiliation and the destruction of an odd (but infinitely treasured) bit of friendship with Blaise, still maintained by owl post and the occasional meeting over a pot of tea. No, what she wanted was just to watch them again. She wanted to watch them touch, and taste, and suck, and fuck. She wanted to watch them explore each other in every tawdry, dirty way imaginable, and then go home and replay it all in her mind with her hands on her body. She wanted them to continue being her teachers in what they had already taught her so well. 

Yeah, and she also wanted world peace, and knew she stood about as much a chance of getting it. Sadly, her body was frustratingly stubborn when it came to listening to her logical mind. It craved the sight of Blaise and Draco, and the craving seemed to grow stronger every day. When she found herself contemplating stealing Harry’s invisibility cloak so she could go to the other side of town to spy through the windows of Blaise’s flat, she knew that something needed to be done.

So she decided to get laid. Her body needed satisfaction and had probably latched onto the fantasy of those two particular men simply because they were attractive and readily, demonstrably capable of both giving and receiving quite a bit of satisfaction. But she didn’t need them. She just needed sex; she was sure of it. If she was able to get a decent amount of non-solo sex on a regular basis, her silly fixation would fade away.

Hermione the Sexually Aware turned into Hermione the Sexual Predator, on the prowl for a likely sort of man to relieve her of the burden of a virginity or two. She shocked Ron and Harry speechless when she casually agreed to let Ginny fix her up on a blind date, but her wonderfully loyal boys were quick to jump on the bandwagon and start fixing her up with anyone they could find which mostly, of course, consisted of co-workers of theirs. She went on more dates in the weeks that followed than she had been on in her entire life put together. Sadly, the dates did not go as well as Hermione might have hoped. Harry and Ron were stronger in their enthusiasm than they were in their taste. Horny she might be, but Hermione still wasn’t _desperate_. Or rather, she wasn’t quite that desperate _yet_. Fortunately, before things were allowed to reach too critical a stage, she met Todd. 

Todd was a researcher for the Ministry of Magic and an attendee at a conference featuring Hermione as a speaker. He was handsome and charming and flatteringly interested in getting to know her better…and the conference had put her up in a very nice hotel room with a mini-bar. After he took her out for a very pleasant dinner, it was the essence of simplicity to invite him up for a late-night drink that quickly developed into a late-night snog, and then some. When she slipped into the loo to “freshen up a bit” while bidding him to “make himself comfortable,” she pulled out the emergency kit she had prepared for just this occasion. On went the silky/lacy/barely-there bit of naughtiness she had chosen as the ideal costume and down the hatch went a range of potions to make the experience as safe, painless, and hopefully enjoyable as possible. Never let it be said that Hermione Granger allowed herself to be caught unprepared. One teeth-cleaning and breath-freshening charm later, and she was ready to go.

And go she did. She went and Todd went and then went together a time or two all night long, and Hermione was pleased to discover that sex with a partner really was quite good. She and Todd quite enjoyed each other. They enjoyed each other that night. They enjoyed each other the next morning. They enjoyed each other every night after that for the rest of the conference, and they even enjoyed each other once in a quickie behind the podium during a lunch break. When the conference was over and they both returned to London, he was quick to send her an owl inviting her to dinner so they could enjoy themselves all over again. She accepted. Sex with a partner, even after the initial awkwardness of adjusting to a person instead of a far-more-maneuverable toy, wasn’t quite the sunburst of ecstasy she had hoped it would be, but she chalked that up to the difference between dreams and reality. As realities went, it really wasn’t half bad. She told herself that her obsession was finally cured.

After four very enjoyable months, she and Todd found that their pooled resources would allow them to find a very nice flat to share where they could thoroughly enjoy each other every night. When she packed her belongings for the move, Hermione ruthlessly purged her toy box. The videos were the first things to go. Nearly half the toys were discarded as well, keeping only those that could be fun for her and Todd to enjoy together, along with a few for those evenings when Todd worked late at the ministry and she was home alone. She’d spent quite a bit of money on those toys, after all, and it would be a terrible shame to see them go to waste. Especially when Todd worked so very many late nights, supervising the interns. She kept the double-headed dildo from the night of her epiphany, but she told herself that it was only kept for nostalgia. (She told herself a lot of things. Most of the time, she believed them.)

After six months of living together, Todd offered Hermione a diamond ring signifying his intention to enjoy her for as long as they both should live. She accepted. Everyone was quite happy for them, and the wedding plans began right away. Everything seemed in place for Todd and Hermione to have a long, uncomplicated, perfectly enjoyable life together. But then one day, Hermione decided to surprise Todd by bringing him lunch at work and caught him with his pants around his ankles while he thoroughly enjoyed a blowjob from a sixteen-year-old summer intern. While Hermione unquestionably enjoyed the little nonreversible curse she cast on Todd before leaving the office, the last traces of pleasure she would ever feel from Todd faded by the time she packed her bags and left their shared flat behind.

Once Todd got out of the hospital (it took a few days for the staff of St. Mungo’s to convince him that Hermione’s curse really was nonreversible), he tried to insist that Hermione take the flat, but she refused, wanting nothing more than to be rid of every trace of him remaining in her life. Finding a new place, however, proved more difficult than she had anticipated. Hermione’s job as the medical examiner for the Aurors had her keeping insane hours that didn’t factor in much time for house hunting. Harry and Ron had been terribly nice about letting her crash on their sofa for as long as she needed, and their girlfriends, Ginny and Padma, had been very understanding about her status as a semi-permanent guest, but Hermione couldn’t help but feel like a fifth wheel. When Padma reminded her that Parvati and Terry Boot were getting a flat together, leaving Terry’s former flatmate, Blaise, with an extra bedroom available, Hermione had been desperate enough to owl him right away.

She never expected that he would say yes. No matter how well she and Blaise had gotten along, she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that Blaise would choose a flatmate without his lover’s approval, and she had no reason to believe that Draco would ever approve of anything at all to do with her. She was honestly surprised that the blond hadn’t put a stop to the friendship between her and Blaise. Draco was the possessive type, and she had no doubt that he wouldn’t want a mudblood soiling his favorite plaything. To say she was shocked to get a reply from Blaise the next day telling her she was welcome to the room would be stating the case mildly. She was not, however, one to look a gift thestral in the mouth, and with a little fancy wandwork, she had herself moved into the second bedroom by the end of that day. 

She’d forced herself to be optimistic about the situation as she unpacked her things. The flat was lovely, really. It was in a better neighborhood than the one she’d lived in before, and was more convenient to work, as well. Blaise kept it very tidy, just the way she liked it, and seemed to listen to the same kinds of music as her as well, which was a definite plus. It would, doubtless, be far more relaxing living with a friend instead of a lover. Yes, it might be awkward having Draco as an overnight guest on occasion, but since he ran his business affairs from Malfoy Manor, surely he wouldn’t spend _too_ much time in the flat. There was no reason for her to be nervous. No reason at all. She was cured now, wasn’t she? She’d lost her virginity, and she was certain that all the sexual tension she had felt before regarding the two of them had been lost right along with it.

She had almost managed to convince herself by the time Draco arrived at the flat during her first evening in her new home. Hermione heard the apparition pop and that unmistakable, patrician voice from the entryway, but ignored it, staying in her room with the door shut. There was no need to go out and say hello; Draco had come to see Blaise, not her, and they would, no doubt, head straight into Blaise’s room anyway. But then she heard it. It had been over a year since the last time she heard that particular sound, but she had not managed to forget it. It was a combination of grunting, moaning, and a slight scraping sound that could not have been anything other than a body bent over a convenient piece of furniture getting thoroughly fucked.

She wasn’t aware of moving. She wasn’t aware of crossing the room and putting her hand on the knob of the door, or feeling it turn under her hand. She wasn’t aware of anything in the world except for the sight suddenly before her eyes in living color, and the way it caused heat to flare between her thighs and weakness to take over the rest of her body. Gods below, they were even more beautiful than she remembered, and they were positioned just _perfectly_ for her to watch. And watch she did. She watched Blaise pound into Draco’s arse while Blaise growled, and Draco purred his satisfaction. She watched Blaise drop to his knees to swallow Draco’s shaft. She watched Draco come all over Blaise’s face before kneeling down beside him to lick it away, and then lay his lover down on the carpet so he could turn his tongue to cleaning off all the sweat shining on Blaise’s skin. And when he finished, she watched as they started rolling around on the carpet again, building up new coatings of sweat as they rubbed against each other, sucking and nibbling and groping their way to a mutual climax. 

Hermione stayed there until they finished. She didn’t move. She didn’t turn away. She wasn’t entirely certain that she blinked. And if it hadn’t been for those tell-tale spots dancing in front of her eyes, she probably wouldn’t have remembered to breathe. She just stood shock still, taking it all in, while her mind numbly processed just how dead _wrong_ she had been to think that her fascination with them had passed. Once they finished and stumbled into the kitchen for a post-shag snack, Hermione very, very quietly shut her door before becoming a flurry of activity, grabbing her wand and casting a fast but effective silencing charm before digging frantically through her half-unpacked boxes to unearth her trusty vibrator.

That was the night she began her list of rules for “How to Live with Blaise without Causing Problems.” Rule one: Never again put off buying spare batteries.

Chapter 3:

Hermione determinedly did _not_ allow herself to think about that first night in the flat while she rushed through the end of her shower. The last thing she needed was to get distracted all over again and slip back into fantasies. Harry couldn’t snap her out of them this time; they didn’t have a floo connection in the bathroom. Hopping out of the shower, she cast a quick, haphazard drying charm at her body and her hair before wrapping herself up in her towel, racing back to her room, and throwing open the closet to find something appropriate to wear. She froze for a moment as she took in the sight in front of her before beginning to curse, more heatedly than ever, in English this time.

Nipsy had been at it again. 

Although S.P.E.W. had died a slow, painful death years before, Hermione had held on to her personal, fervent belief that elves were mistreated and misunderstood for quite some time. But that was all before she had to deal with Nipsy. Nipsy’s life purpose was the care and maintenance of the Malfoy family laundry. From what Hermione understood, it was a position that ranked fairly high in the elvish household hierarchy. Since clothing was the path to freedom for unscrupulous elves, only the most trusted elves were selected to handle that task. Nipsy had been the Malfoy laundry elf for nearly thirty years and was _very_ proud of her post. Her entire life revolved around keeping Master Draco’s wardrobe in perfect condition at all times. This was not as simple as it sounded, especially since the majority of Draco’s clothing somehow ended up in Blaise and Hermione’s flat. Nipsy popped in at all sorts of improbable times to collect the dirty clothes and deliver the clean ones. (It was pointless to store Draco’s clean clothes at the manor when he woke up in Blaise’s bed over half of the time.)

The problem was, the stubborn elf couldn’t be convinced not to take Blaise’s and Hermione’s laundry along for the ride. It wasn’t done out of spite; if anything, Nipsy seemed to be prodigiously fond of both Blaise and Hermione. It was simply that Nipsy, with all the pride of a house elf, didn’t believe clothes could be truly clean unless they were elf-cleaned, and had no scruples about removing piles of perfectly clean clothing from Hermione’s closet to wash them all again. No matter how many times Hermione protested, all she got in return was a look of doting condescension, a lying promise to leave Miss Hermione’s clothes alone, and an empty closet at the most inconvenient times. Such as right then, for example, when she was running horrifically late.

Continuing to curse up a storm, Hermione dashed into the living room, still dressed in only a towel, and began digging for suitable Quidditch-viewing wear through the perfectly-folded pile of clean clothes left in a bin. (They _had_ , after considerable effort, managed to convince Nipsy that they did not want to be disturbed when they were sleeping by her coming in to put away the clothes. If she truly felt in her laundry-loving heart that the clothing absolutely _had_ to be delivered in the middle of the night, she was to leave it in a bin in the living room instead of delivering it to each bedroom.) A quick dig found a pair of panties, socks, and jeans, but that was where her luck ended. Her bras were, no doubt, in there somewhere, but she couldn’t have said where, and the only shirts that she was able to positively identify as hers were far too thin to wear in an outdoor Quidditch stadium in uncertain weather. Finally, with a growl of frustration, Hermione simply grabbed the first warm-looking top she could find; a soft gray jumper; and hoped to high heaven that it was Blaise’s. 

She didn’t even want to _think_ of what Draco would do if she accidentally borrowed his clothes. The two of them got along well enough, having cobbled together a peculiar sort of friendship since she’d moved into the flat, based primarily on spoken insults and unspoken mutual respect, but she knew better than to think that mere friendship gave her the right to mess with his hair products or his clothes. Draco had to be _devoted_ to someone before he’d let them touch his things.

Throwing her clothes on as quickly as she could, she grabbed her cloak, her wand, and her purse and apparated to Harry and Ron’s flat with a loud crack. The sitting room was a sea of noisy, constantly moving Weasley siblings, Weasley spouses, and Weasley spawn filling the small room to overflowing, laughing and talking and eating large quantities of breakfast standing up. (The kitchen table was far too overloaded with the food Mrs. Weasley had brought to allow people to actually _sit_ at it to eat.) Hermione hadn’t been there five seconds before she had a fully loaded plate stuffed into one hand, a glass of pumpkin juice shoved into the other, and four different Weasleys (and a Potter) asking what on earth had taken her so long.

Fortunately, they didn’t wait for an answer, and between the hustle and bustle of gathering everyone’s cloaks, chomping down the last few bites of breakfast, and Mrs. Weasley practically frisking Fred and George searching for any prank products they might be sneaking into the match, everyone was far too busy getting out the door to concern themselves overly much with Hermione’s uncharacteristic tardiness. Caught in the tide of departing Weasleys, Hermione followed along quietly, not noticing any real change in the noise and chaos and motion when the portkey turned the world topsy-turvy for a bit before settling into the Chudley Canons stadium. 

It wasn’t until they were settled in their seats and all the boys had gone to buy every tacky Canons-labeled object that they could wave about in the air that Hermione, seated between Ginny and Padma, was finally able to think in complete sentences and take full breaths again, while chatting with the girls about the upcoming game. There had been quite a media blitz about the Canons securing Ron as their Keeper. With the fame from his role in the fight against Voldemort, practically every team in the Quidditch League had made it clear that Ron could write his own ticket, but his old loyalties had shown through. All the wizarding newspapers in Britain had shown up for his first team practice, and an enormous crowd had turned out to see his first game. Ginny and Padma were bursting with justifiable pride as they looked over the packed stands and saw signs already prepped with Ron’s name and team number. Frustration at Nipsy and annoyance at herself finally faded away from Hermione as she caught some of the infectious excitement pouring off of her friends while they waited for the match to begin. 

They didn’t have long to wait. Not ten minutes after they arrived, the announcer came on and began calling out the line-up of the players. Harry, sporting a brand-new Canons cap and shirt and waving a large Canons pendant, slipped into the seat next to Ginny just in time to pull out his six-year-old omnioculars (flashing a wink at Hermione as she pulled out her identical pair) and scream like a madman as Ronald Weasley was announced. Hermione couldn’t help but feel a bit teary-eyed when she zoomed in on Ron’s face and saw that his ears had turned Chinese-Fireball-red while he grinned so wide that it probably hurt. She didn’t like Quidditch and probably never would, but at that moment, she was just so unbelievably happy for Ron, knowing without a doubt that this was the best day of his life. She was so thrilled that she could be there for it. As the balls were thrown into the air and the crowd went wild, Hermione sat back in her seat with a contented sigh and a soft, nostalgic smile.

The smile shifted into a puzzled frown as she felt something pricking at the skin of her back. Twisting around, she examined the back of her seat, but couldn’t find anything that would account for the odd sensation. Shaking her head and trying to shrug it off, she turned back to face front…only to feel that pricking again, this time at a different spot on her back, as if someone was poking her gently but persistently with a sharp needle. 

Hermione squirmed in her seat, trying to get comfortable while avoiding drawing attention. It didn’t work. Oh, no one noticed what she was doing since everyone was far too busy watching the game; but no matter what she did, she just couldn’t get comfortable. Every way she turned, she could still feel something pricking against her skin—which was starting to feel awfully sensitive and somewhat itchy. Hermione’s analytical mind quickly processed it as an allergic reaction to _something_ , but she’d never had any kind of reaction to the cleaning agent Nipsy used before, which meant—

Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she pulled rubbed the hem of the jumper between her fingers, grimacing as her suspicions were confirmed. Cashmere. She should have known. She hadn’t worn the material since she was ten years old and her parents made her wear the cashmere jumper Great Aunt Elsie had given her to the family Christmas party, but she still remembered her skin’s reaction. Hermione felt her stomach sink as another realization kicked in. Blaise was allergic to cashmere also, which meant that the jumper belonged… As inconspicuously as she could, Hermione lifted a sleeve to her face, testing the texture and the scent of the material against her cheek. Yes. It was most _definitely_ Draco’s. That strong, sweet, utterly seductive smell that clung to fabric (and skin, and furniture) even after it was washed was a Draco Malfoy trademark. Hermione would have known it anywhere, even if she had never truly expected to find it wrapped around her body.

Well, that decided it. Bad enough to spend the rest of the game in a jumper that made her break out into hives. To add the distraction of Draco’s scent into the mix was just asking for trouble. Determinedly setting her jaw, Hermione gathered her purse from where she had shoved it under her seat and leaned over to get Ginny’s attention.

“I’m going to go see if I can buy a shirt from the vendors,” she yelled once she finally caught the witch’s eye.

“Bored already?” Ginny replied, clearly amused, without taking her eyes off the game. Hermione managed a weak smile that Ginny didn’t see as she shifted around past the others to get out into the aisle. 

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she promised. Ginny nodded absently in acknowledgment, still focused completely on the game.

Fortunately, it didn’t take her long to find the souvenirs vendor. Unfortunately, he was utterly and completely out of shirts.

“Sorry, miss,” the man said, trying to look apologetic while he gleefully counted the money he had made, “but I’ve never seen such a rush on shirts. I’ve been cleaned out for the past twenty minutes. It’s our Ron Weasley’s first game, you know, and—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Hermione interrupted impatiently. “But do you really not have _any_ shirts left? I don’t care about size. Or possibly a robe? Cloak? Anything, really.”

“Bad luck, miss,” the man replied cheerfully. “All I’ve got left are a few pennants and some hats that light up. Could I interest you in—”

“No,” Hermione stated firmly. “You couldn’t.” 

“Suit yourself,” the man shrugged before returning his attention to his overstuffed cash registered. Muttering to herself in Arabic, she started following the signs to the toilets. She had a handkerchief in her bag; she could probably transfigure it into a semi-tolerable shirt to change into in the toilet stall, even if that would stretch the linen rather thin. She didn’t dare attempt transfiguration on Draco’s jumper; he’d skin her alive if she did any damage to it. 

The signs led her to turn down a corridor, and she frowned in bewilderment at what she saw. Instead of a large sign showing the entrance to the loo, there were two small doors next to each other, and a sizeable crowd of women congregated in one cluster, with a few men along the side. Shrugging off her confusion, Hermione approached the nearest woman, an elderly witch who had just pulled a pair of knitting needles out of her voluminous bag.

“Excuse me, could you direct me to the washroom?” Hermione asked, as politely as she could.

“Join the queue, dearie,” the woman responded, gesturing in front of her. Biting back a groan, Hermione realized that what she had mistaken for a random crowd was, in fact, a long, snaking line of people waiting for their turn in the loo. “Only two stalls, it would seem,” the woman continued. “Shocking, really, for a stadium of this size. I suppose they never really expected it to fill up.”

Hermione sighed, trying to decide whether or not it would be safe to just duck behind a corner and try to transfigure a shirt and change into it there, when she heard a voice calling out her name.

“Hermione! What luck. Give us a hand, then?” Turning toward the voices, Hermione spotted Fred and George overloaded with every type of food the concession stand had to offer, holding the items close rather than risking a floating spell in the crowd.

Hermione’s eyes lit up at the sight of the thick, bulky jumper Fred was wearing under his cloak, and the T-shirt she could see peeking out from underneath the collar. Borrowing that jumper would be _much_ better than dealing with the paper-thin shirt that was all she’d be able to get out of her handkerchief, and the T-shirt he was wearing underneath it seemed a reasonable guarantee that Fred wouldn’t get _too_ angry with her for stripping him of his clothes. Rushing over to join the twins with a brilliant smile on her face, she almost didn’t notice the way they slowly backed away from her as she approached.

“She’s _smiling_ at me, George,” Fred stage-whispered. “It’s scaring me; make it stop.”

“Coward,” George replied, bumping shoulders with his brother. “This is a historic event; Head Girl Hermione Granger, She of the Disapproving Scowl for Anything Regarding Either One of Us, is showing signs of _pleasure_ at our approach. The world will never be the same again.”

Ignoring their nonsense, Hermione cut straight to the point. “Fred, give me your jumper.”

“It’s not really Hermione,” Fred insisted, addressing George. “It’s an evil clone attempting to molest me. Or perhaps it’s polyjuice. Angelina, is that you? I told you, no more sex with you now that you’ve married George. Wearing a Hermione-face doesn’t change that rule.”

“I grabbed this jumper by mistake; it’s cashmere, I’m allergic, the vendor is out of shirts, and I need something to change into. Now give me your jumper and find some way to hide me while I change into it, or you’ll be learning firsthand just how irreversible that hex is that I used on Todd.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Fred began, but was cut off by George.

“Best not start stripping, either of you. Haven’t you noticed all the security guards around?” Hermione actually _hadn’t_ noticed, but once George pointed them out, she saw them stationed in practically every corner of the hallway. “Worried about keeping control over this big of a crowd, I expect. Anyway, I don’t imagine you’d get too far out of your jumper before they had a thing or two to say about indecent exposure. This the line to the loo?” he asked, gesturing to the large cluster of people waiting nearby. Hermione nodded. “You could be here upwards of an hour before getting a chance to go in and change in private. I’d say your best bet is to just come back to the stands, and hope the game is over soon.”

Hermione groaned, but nodded her head. “You’re right,” she admitted, grabbing hold of one of the trays precariously balanced against George’s shoulder. “We might as well go back.”

“See? I told you it was a historic day,” George stage-whispered as they followed Hermione back to the stands. “She said I was _right_. Remind me to mark this day on my calendar when we get home. And to owl _The Daily Prophet_.”

Fortunately, all it took was one good glare and a movement of her hand towards her wand holster before the twins got the message to keep their mouths shut. 

Fighting their way through the crowds, they finally managed to get back to their seats where Hermione slumped, itchy and miserable with her head in her hands, and prayed that the game would be over soon. 

She inhaled deeply, trying to calm down and relax, and felt herself shiver as she breathed in Draco’s scent off the fabric. Damn, but it smelled good. She breathed in again, even deeper, until she could actually taste the scent on the back of her throat, savoring it at the same moment that she felt an itchy prickle of the cashmere against a certain spot on the side of her neck which had always been ridiculously sensitive. To her shock, the combination of the itch against such a tender spot and Draco’s scent in her nose and her throat made her feel a little…tingly. 

Instinctively, she squirmed a bit in her seat, and had to bite back a moan. The tingles were spreading now, sharpest where the cashmere rubbed against her skin, but drifting into the lower parts of her body as well. She squirmed some more, clenching her thighs a bit, and heard herself whimper slightly. She wanted to keep her eyes open so she could make sure no one was noticing her, but her eyelids got heavy with pleasure, and in spite of herself, they slipped closed. 

Her back arched in pleasure, and she was abruptly reminded that she hadn’t been able to find a bra when she felt her nipples start to tighten, increasing their sensitivity and rubbing them up against the cashmere of the jumper. She gripped the hem of the jumper tightly, and started tugging on it deliberately, increasing the rub of the fabric against her all-too-sensitive skin. The prickling, electric sensations left on her flesh after the brush of fabric started to make her think of the feel of hands against her, fingernails scraping over her skin, teeth nibbling at her gently, teasingly, never giving her as much as she wanted, leaving her aching for more. 

There was no cashmere between her legs, so there was no explanation for the sensations pulsing there, but she couldn’t bring herself to give that much thought when it felt…so… _good_ as she wiggled around some more, grinding deeper against the hard plastic seating. She found herself panting for breath, taking in more of that overpowering Draco-scent that made her feel so hot and melty, and squirming in response which made the cashmere rub up against her skin while her hips thrust hard into her chair and waves of pleasure washed over her that stung and tickled and tingled in all the right ways.

Hermione could feel herself starting to sweat, making the material stick even closer to her skin, and her breathing was ragged and short as she felt the pleasure build and build and build into what she knew would be an unbelievable release in just a few…more…

WHAM!

The roar of the crowd was so overpoweringly loud that it literally hit Hermione like a slap in the face. Eyes flying open, she saw that the entire stadiumful of people were on their feet, screaming at the top of their lungs. It wasn’t hard to see why: Trevor Clintock, the seeker for the Canons, was zooming around the stadium with a grin on his face and the snitch in his hands. The game was over, and the Canons had won.

Dazedly, she rose to her feet, though she couldn’t bring herself to jump up and down as the rest of the Weasleys were doing. Her body was humming with arousal on hold, and anything that caused her breasts to bounce up and down against the material of the jumper would be _bad_ right then, when she was barely holding on to her sanity and self-composure by a thin (itchy) thread. She managed to force her lips into a smile, but behind them, her teeth were clenched as she frantically calculated the best and quickest way to get _out_ of there before she quite literally exploded. 

Mrs. Weasley was saying…something…Hermione wasn’t quite sure _what_ she was saying; but it was probably something about going out to celebrate with the rest of the family. They’d be expecting her to join them, of _course_ they’d be expecting her to join them, and the excuse that she absolutely _had_ to go frig herself to orgasm over Draco Malfoy’s jumper would not have gone over well. She tried desperately to come up with a plausible reason to leave but her brain was still buzzing around thoughts like “nipple” and “clit” and “hot, sweaty Slytherin fantasies” and couldn’t be swayed into thinking logically. Just when she had resigned herself to joining the Weasleys wherever they chose to go and ducking away for a quick, humiliating ten minutes to get herself off in the loo, rescue came from a most unexpected source.

“See there, Hermione,” George yelled over the noise of the crowd, throwing an arm over her shoulders, “I told you the game wouldn’t be long! Now you can pop home and change your jumper.”

“She didn’t want a jumper,” Fred yelled in response, playfully knocking George’s arm away from Hermione to wrap his own around her. “She just wanted a chance to molest me, didn’t you, love?”

“Lies, all of it,” George insisted. “Why would she want to molest you when everyone knows that I’m the good-looking twin?”

They continued noisily teasing each other to their mutual delight, but their banter had caused at least _one_ positive result: Mrs. Weasley, always tuned in to any signs of her sons making mischief, had overheard them.

“Problem with your jumper, dear?” she asked, her voice not sounding the least bit strained in spite of the volume she had to use to be heard over the crowd. (Doubtless raising her children had built up her ability to raise her voice.)

“Grabbed the wrong one off the laundry pile, I’m afraid,” Hermione confessed. “It’s cashmere and I’m allergic.”

“Run along home, then, and catch up with us later,” Mrs. Weasley advised. “If we’re not still at the Burrow, we’ll leave a note for you telling you where to meet us.” 

Smiling gratefully, Hermione grabbed the chance for a quick exit and started weaving her way through the crowd to the apparition point. The edge of her arousal that had faded since the game ended came back with a vengeance as the massive crowd crushed around her, shoving arms, legs, shoulders, and elbows against her body and her hyper-stimulated skin. By the time she finally reached the apparition point, she was literally shaking with need, and not even the fear of splinching herself in her distraction kept her from apparating straight into her bedroom.

She landed with a thump on her bed and immediately began stripping, unclasping the cloak first, and then barely managing to kick off her shoes before she dragged the jeans off her legs, pulling her panties and socks off with them. Her hands were shaking by the time she pulled the jumper off, hugging it against her chest with one arm while the other reached down between her legs.

She shrieked when her trembling fingers brushed against her clit, sending a spark through her system that was so powerful, she was surprised the bedding didn’t catch on fire. Shifting the other arm, she started rubbing the cashmere against her torso, feeling it all the way down her body from her neck to the top of her public hair and glorying in the prickling sensations while she pumped her fingers into her soaking wet folds.

Spots were flashing in front of her eyes and she was pretty sure she wasn’t getting enough oxygen, but she didn’t care, she didn’t care about anything as long as nothing came to interrupt her rising climax. Dragging one sleeve of the jumper up to her face, she breathed in Draco’s smell while rubbing it against her lips and tugging the end of the jumper against her _other_ lips, which was more than enough to push her over the edge.

With a blood-curdling scream, she came. And came. And came. 

Floating back to reality was a gradual process. First, she became aware that she was breathing again. Then she realized that her leg was bent under her body at an awkward angle, but that she didn’t have the energy to move it. Then—most unexpectedly—a voice rang out from next to her dresser, snapping all her body to attention by the end of the first drawling word.

“Isn’t that my jumper?” 

Chapter 4:

The first instinct that kicked in was the one to cover herself, and Draco’s previous unreadable expression shifted into a frown as he watched Hermione try to tug the jumper into covering her from head to toe.

“Honestly, Granger. It’s bad enough that you’d borrow my clothes without asking, but I really _can’t_ condone your stretching the jumper like that. That’s very expensive cashmere, you know.”

As always, aggravation with Draco took precedence over everything else, even embarrassment, and Hermione stopped struggling with the jumper. “I wouldn’t have to stretch it if you’d get out and give me some privacy,” she snapped, discarding the jumper and wriggling under her comforter, instead. “What are you doing in here, anyway?”

Draco shrugged. “The door was open.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Hermione had charmed her door to close and lock automatically whenever she left the flat. The last thing she needed was Blaise or Draco coming in to help themselves to a spare bit of parchment and finding her box of sex toys instead. The door unlocked as soon as she re-entered the flat, but it still stayed closed. 

“It was once I opened it,” Draco replied with his best attempt at an innocent expression. It didn’t quite work.

“How dare you barge in here without my permission!”

“I hardly barged,” he stated coolly, dropping the pretense of innocence as he concentrated on examining a chip in his manicure. “I merely stepped in quietly to see what all the fuss was about. After all,” he looked up with a wicked grin, “you were screaming my name.”

Hermione blanched. “I was?” Her voice cracked a bit as she frantically tried to remember what, exactly, she had screamed. Todd had liked it when she talked dirty, and she’d gotten in the habit of letting her mouth run away with her when she was turned on. Considering just how turned on she had been, and the thoughts that had been racing through her mind about Draco…

“Mmm, indeed you were, along with some _very_ colorful language I hadn’t thought prim little girls like you even knew.” His grin turned wolfish as he ran his eyes over her body, more clearly visible than she’d realized since in her distraction, the comforter had started to slip. “Just full of surprises, aren’t you, Granger?” He took a few steps closer until he was standing next to the bed and ran a finger over the hem of the comforter where it was just barely covering her breasts. “In fact, I—”

He cut off abruptly, and the teasing, seductive look in his eyes changed into pure surprise. “Merlin’s balls, what happened to your skin?”

Confused, Hermione followed the direction of his eyes and caught sight of the swollen red hives covering her torso. Blushing scarlet, she pulled the comforter up higher, and fought the urge to close her eyes until he went away. “I’m…um…allergic,” she mumbled. “To cashmere. It makes me break out in hives. They’ll go away soon, though.”

“Why did you wear it if you’re allergic to it?”

“Well, I didn’t know it was cashmere when I grabbed it, did I?” Hermione grumbled in response. “I was in a rush and grabbed the first thing I saw from the laundry basket. It wasn’t until we got to the stadium that I realized what it was, and by then, there was nothing I could do about it.”

Slowly, a grin began to spread over Draco’s face. “So…you just sat there?” he asked, trailing a smooth finger lightly over her skin, circling around a cluster of hives while subtly inching the comforter down. “In a stadium, surrounded by people, surrounded by _Weasleys_ , with _my_ jumper rubbing up against your skin,” by this point, the comforter had fallen down enough to reveal her breasts, and Hermione saw Draco’s eyes widen as he saw the evidence written in hives that she had been bra-less all along, “with nothing between my jumper and your body to protect any part of you from the way it felt against your skin?”

Her mouth was far too dry to speak, so Hermione simply nodded, wordlessly.

“Poor thing,” Draco cooed, seating himself on the edge of the bed while adding a finger at a time to her skin until he was rubbing her with his whole hand, squeezing her breast and rubbing his thumb over her hardening nipple. “Shall I…kiss and make better?” he suggested, looking up at her with a smirk. He didn’t wait for her response before cupping her breast and lifting it up to present it to his mouth as he latched onto a patch of flesh covered in hives, sucking on it greedily and tracing each bump with slow circles from his tongue. 

In spite of her shock, Hermione couldn’t help but moan. The skin was so sensitive, more sensitive than she could ever remember it being before, and the wet heat of his mouth felt far too good to resist.

“Draco, what… Oh my…oh yes…ohhhh, no! Stop!” Pushing against his shoulders, she forced his mouth away from her skin. Cupping her hand around his chin, she jerked his face up until she could look him in the eye. “Eyes aren’t dilated,” she muttered to herself, “and speech isn’t slurred. Not drunk or drugged, then. Possessed, maybe?”

“As fun as this isn’t,” Draco grumbled, trying to pull out of her grip, “I’d like to get back to what I was doing, if you don’t mind.” His hand reached out to recapture her breast, but she slapped him away, grabbing hold of the comforter with her free hand and tugging the material up nearly to her chin.

“Spoilsport,” Draco pouted, looking mournfully at her covered body.

“Draco, think! Yesterday, you wouldn’t have given me a second look and today, you’re all over me! Doesn’t that tell you something’s wrong?”

“Yesterday, I wouldn’t look at you twice because I was afraid I’d grab you and shag you into the mattress. Today, I _am_ going to grab you and shag you into the mattress. Nothing’s wrong, nothing’s changed, so can we _please_ shag now?”

In Hermione’s shock, she completely forgot to hold up the comforter, and it fell to pool around her waist. Draco’s eyes lit up at the sight of her breasts fully revealed to him once more and started to lean in…only to growl in disappointment when she pushed him away again; this time shoving so hard and so abruptly that he nearly fell off the bed. She continued to hold him there at arm’s length with her hands grasping his shoulders.

“You’re lying,” she insisted, sounding confused and desperate and almost on the verge of tears. “It isn’t true; it can’t be true! You didn’t want me yesterday, and you don’t want me today.”

“I wanted you yesterday,” Draco stated lifting one of her hands off his shoulder and placing a sensuous kiss on the palm. “I want you today.” The other hand was also taken and kissed. “And when today’s over, I’ll want you tomorrow, and the day after that.” He worked his way from her hand up her arm, kissing every hive that he found, until he was sucking on her shoulder. “I’ve wanted you for a very long time, Granger,” he whispered, nibbling on her earlobe. “It’s not going to stop.” His mouth moved to her neck, exploring with licks and nibbles until he found a spot that made her shiver when he touched it. “And now that I’ve heard you call my name…now that I know for certain that you want me, too…” He released her hand, sliding his smoothly up her torso until it reached her breast, slipping his hand over it at the same moment that he sucked on the sensitive spot on her neck. “…there’s nothing to stop me from _having_ you, at last.”

His body uncoiled like a spring as he levered himself over her in one smooth movement, positioning his body on top of hers, his knees on either side of her thighs, one hand bracing himself on the headboard, the other hand indulging himself on her breast, and his mouth locked firmly onto hers.

The kiss was dizzying and disorienting and knocked every single thought out of her head. It put her in mind of her first drink of firewhiskey, her first view of Hogwarts, the first time she held her wand. It made her feel like she had felt when she was sixteen, riding a thestral she couldn’t even see, flying through the air on pure sensation. She was shaking from head to toe by the time Draco pulled away to catch his breath. It took a few, long moments before her mind started functioning again, and even then, it came back to her slowly, once piece at a time. 

_Hair,_ she realized first, categorizing the silky sensation underneath her palms. _My hands are tangled in his hair._ She rubbed a few soft strands between her fingers, grateful that her hands, in spite of their trembling, were steady enough to obey her commands. _Tongue,_ came next. _That taste in my mouth is his tongue._ _My name,_ was next. _He’s saying my name._ He was, indeed, gasping her name, the four syllables coming out as a cross between a whisper and a growl as he repeated it between each lick and suck of a hive. _I didn’t think he even knew my first name,_ she thought wonderingly. _I didn’t think he knew **anyone** ’s first name. It’s always “Granger,” or “Potter,” or even “Zabi—”_

“No!” Hermione yelled, recoiling so abruptly that Draco really _did_ fall off the bed this time. 

“Granger, I’m all for a bit of ‘slap’ in my slap-’n-tickle,” he grumbled as he crawled back on, “but don’t you think you’re taking this a bit far?”

“Don’t touch me!” she squealed, backing away from him until she was practically plastered against the headboard, her knees up to her chest so that not even her legs brushed against him as he knelt, bewildered, at the foot of the bed.

“You can’t possibly still think I don’t want you, right?” he finally asked, moving toward her, frowning when she flinched away. “Would I honestly have taken it this far for just a gag?” he questioned, clearly exasperated. She didn’t answer aloud, but he must have been dissatisfied with whatever answer he saw on her face. “Because really, Granger,” he continued as he rose to his feet, pulling his jumper over his head, “modesty is one thing and,” he kicked off his shoes, lifting one foot, and then the other to pull off his socks before beginning to unbutton his trousers, “sheer obliviousness is another.” His unfastened trousers fell to his ankles and he stepped out of them casually, walking around to the side of the bed so that she could see him clearly, head to toe.

“This,” he said in an exaggeratedly patient voice as he gestured with his hand between his legs, “is an erection.” And indeed it was. A fully visible (Draco apparently disapproved of undergarments), fully engorged, ready-for-business erection. “This is what happens to a man when he’s aroused, as I _clearly_ am, right now. For you.”

He wrapped his hand around his cock and began stroking it, slowly and deliberately. “If we don’t get past this protesting nonsense soon,” he stated, making a visible effort to keep his voice cool and unconcerned in spite of the breathiness she could hear just behind his words, “I’ll be forced to take this problem…completely in hand. And I’m sick of it. I’ve been taking myself in hand for…too many years over you. I want you. I’m finally…damn well sure that you…want me. If there’s a real reason we can’t do this, speak now so we can resolve it, or for…forever after hold your bloody peace.”

“You’re taken!” Hermione blurted out, squeezing herself into a tighter ball, forcing her arms to wrap firmly around her legs. Her hands, which hadn’t been bothered by the cashmere _before_ were suddenly itching like mad, and she had the sinking feeling that the only way to cure that particular itch was to reach out and stroke that oh-so-tempting column of flesh being displayed in front of her. She gripped her knees a bit tighter.

“Pardon?” Draco replied, looking genuinely confused.

“You’re with Blaise,” Hermione clarified. “He’d kill me if he walked in on us together, or at the very least, he’d never speak to me again.”

Enlightenment dawned on Draco’s face. “Is that all that you’re worried about?” he asked, climbing back on to the bed and crawling toward her. “That’s not a problem at all. He’ll understand. We have rules about that.”

“Rules?” Hermione asked, batting his persistent hands away. “You have rules about cheating on each other?”

“No, we have rules about you.” Hermione froze, and Draco took the opportunity to pull her unresisting body onto his lap.

“M-me?”

“Quite,” Draco agreed, only half-listening to her words as he attempting to peel the comforter down off of her body again.

“How long have you had rules about me?”

“Since we lived in the headquarters. In fact, Blaise made the first rule about you just a few days after he moved in. Rule number one: All fantasies must be shared.”

“Fantasies.”

“Yes.”

“About me?”

“No, Granger, fantasies about Longbottom. Naturally, fantasies about you!” His voice and tone were as snarky as ever, but his hands were _decidedly_ more friendly. He had finally given up on removing the comforter altogether—Hermione was holding on to it with a death grip as she tried to process the way her world had just turned upside down—but he had discovered, to his great pleasure, that it was perfectly easy to work his way around the comforter, exploiting the space between the material and her skin.

“You have fantasies about me?” Hermione asked, arching into his touch in spite of herself as his fingers expertly groped her body.

“Of course. Been having them for years.” Nuzzling her neck, he nipped at her earlobe. “Clever girl, how did you know that seeing you in my clothes was one of them? Not that I intended you to break out into hives, of course,” he scraped his nails over a cluster of hives and grinned when Hermione gasped at the sensation, “but they do seem to have made you delightfully responsive, haven’t they?”

“And Blaise?” Hermione managed to ask, trying to force herself to think clearly. It wasn’t easy, especially as Draco’s hands continued exploring for more spots that could make her shiver and squirm in his lap.

“Blaise wants to see you in his clothes too, of course. Wanker always latches on to my favorite fantasies.”

“Not what I meant,” Hermione gasped out, _but still, good to know,_ a wicked part of her mind added silently. “What rule do you have…mmm, feels good…” _Rule, something about a rule,_ she thought, trying to remember what she had wanted to say. _Rule, rule, ruler? Mmm, spankings. Never tried that with Todd. Bet I could get Draco to… No! Rule, must ask about the rule._ “What rule do you have about this?” she finally managed to say.

“Oh, you mean why Blaise won’t get angry?” Draco asked, finally cottoning on.

“Yes!” Hermione panted, in a combination of pleasure at him finally understanding what she was saying…and pleasure at him pinching that spot where her hip curved into her thigh.

“Rule number seven,” Draco stated, slipping a single finger between her folds and rubbing back and forth between her opening and her clit. “If either of us gets the chance to be with you, we have not just the right, but the obligation to take it, and the other will understand.” Draco curled his finger, scraping his fingernail over her clit and grinning at the way it made her shudder from head to toe. “Especially if he gets details, afterwards.”

“Inside me,” Hermione begged, practically sobbing as she writhed against his fingers, pleading for more penetration. “Inside me, Draco, please!”

“Are you protected, love?” he asked, all smoothness and snark gone from his voice as he tried desperately to hold himself together while she wriggled wildly against him.

“Yes. Potion. _Now_ , Draco, _please_!”

“Anything for you,” he whispered as he lifted her hips, guiding her into position to slide down on his cock, clasping his arms around her tightly to hold her still while they adjusted to each other. He buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply. “Always for you,” he sighed. 

Carefully, Hermione maneuvered her legs so that they were positioned on either side of his thighs, and began levering herself up and down on him, actually whimpering at how good it felt when she took all of him in, filling herself with him and relishing the way the head of his cock rub against her g-spot.

“Good, Draco, so good!” she gasped, as he started actively participating, thrusting up against her each she seated herself upon him and using both hands to stimulate all the sensitive spots he’d discovered.

He would have replied, but his mouth was full of the soft skin of her neck which he was sucking and nibbling almost savagely, clearly intending to give her the mother of all love bites to make up for all the years when he _wanted_ to mark her like that, and couldn’t.

She’d had a mini-orgasm as soon as he entered her, just from the feel of him inside her, but she could feel him working her up to a big one. A _very_ big one. The kind of orgasm that only thoughts of him and Blaise had ever managed to rouse in her in the past. The muscles in her legs were screaming from the workout she was giving them, the hives all over her torso were burning from the sweat dripping over her body, and her vision was growing blurry and spotty from lack of oxygen as she gasped and panted and screamed out every filthy thing that came into her head, and if she didn’t come soon, she’d die, she’d _die_ , and then…

Every muscle in her body locked (including the ones in her cunt, squeezing Draco like a vise) and she used the last bit of breath she had in her body to scream as hard as she could as her orgasm smashed into her, and everything went black.

Chapter 5:

No gentleman would molest an unconscious woman, but Draco Malfoy was clearly no gentleman. When Hermione came to, it was to the sensation of his fingers playing connect-the-dots with her fading hives while he sucked contentedly on her breast.

_For someone with a male lover,_ Hermione thought to herself, _he really does have a surprising breast fetish._

“So, given that I shagged you into unconsciousness,” Draco began conversationally when he saw her eyes start to blink open, “I suppose the question ‘Was it good for you’ is a bit superfluous.”

Hermione snorted and tried to roll away from him, but he moved with her, ending up spooning behind her with his face nestled in her neck, and his hand still lazily stroking her body.

“It was good for me,” he confessed softly, snuggling a little closer to her. “I knew we’d be good together.”

And they _had_ been good together. Really good. Better than she’d known it could be outside of her fantasies.

“And now that you’re awake again,” Draco continued, his voice growing more playful while his hand grew more adventurous, “we can be good again.” He rubbed up against her so that she could feel his growing erection, and in spite of herself, she wriggled back against him. “I want to hear you scream my name this time,” he whispered in a husky voice that gave her goosebumps, swinging a leg over her body so that he was straddling her before bending down to reclaim her mouth.

At least, that was the plan. It might have worked, too, if she hadn’t ducked to the side at the last minute, leaving Draco with a face full of pillow instead of her.

“No,” Hermione stated, hoping that her voice sounded firmer to him than it did to herself.

“No?” Draco asked as he lifted his head and propped his weight up on an elbow. “No to what, precisely? Screaming my name? Because if you think I can’t get you to do that, then I’d be up to placing a little wager.” He grinned suggestively. “If I win, you and I will—”

“No ‘you and I’,” Hermione interrupted while battling back a heated blush. She didn’t want to think about what terms Draco would set, because if she did, it would just get her hopelessly turned on again, and then she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from giving in. She tugged the sheet around her body, wishing she could get him to cover up as well. His naked body was far too distracting. “We shouldn’t have done this.”

Draco’s seductive smirk fell into a scowl. “Not this again,” he grumbled. “So what is it, now, hmm?” he asked as he lowered his body on top of hers, holding himself up with an elbow on either side of her face, blocking her in. “What are you going to use to try to convince yourself that you don’t want this? What is it about me that’s so damn repulsive that you can’t just admit that we _work_ like this, that it’s _right_ and that it’s what we _both_ want?”

“B-blaise—” Hermione stammered, trying to explain.

“I already told you that he’d be fine with this!” Draco growled.

“But _I’m_ not fine with doing this behind his back!” Hermione yelled in response. “You’re his boyfriend, and he’s my friend! He took me in, gave me a place to live, and I just don’t feel right about screwing around with his lover behind his back!” 

To her surprise, Draco grinned, and lowered his body further on top of hers, building up some lovely friction between their chests. “Ah, so you wouldn’t mind if we were ‘screwing around’ in front of his face?”

Hermione’s mouth opened and shut a few times, but words refused to come out.

“Are you speechless because you’re angry, or because the idea turns you on?”

Hermione’s mouth slammed shut with a snap and she glared pure death at Draco. Sadly, her wand was on the other side of the room, so the glare didn’t have any effect other than making him preen.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” he gloated. “I could never make you _speechless_ unless I was dead-on-balls right.” Smirking at her again, he lowered his mouth back to her flesh, this time attacking her nipple with smooth, cat-like licks. “Makes you hot, doesn’t it? You like the idea of being with both of us at once, don’t you? Two mouths licking you all over, four hands groping you from head to toe, two cocks,” he thrust his pelvis against hers, “filling you up and riding you so hard that you’ll feel echoes of it every time you move your legs for days after?”

Again, her silence (along with her deep scarlet blush) was all the answer Draco required. He didn’t know that he’d just detailed the very dream that had made her oversleep that morning, but he knew enough to know that the idea _definitely_ turned her on.

“S-s-stop distracting me,” she stammered, whimpering slightly as he kept rocking his hips against her. “And stop teasing me! I—I won’t, I _won’t_ sleep with you again until I’ve had a chance to talk to Blaise. Rules or not, it isn’t fair to just…”

“Shag? Screw? Fuck? Hump?” Draco was obviously in favor of the last option as he continued rubbing himself against her.

“ _Cheat_ like this, without making sure it’s all right with him. Just because the two of you discussed it hypothetically doesn’t mean he’d be okay with it really happening.”

“Hmm? Yes, dear,” Draco replied distractedly, using his legs to spread her thighs further apart as he deepened the thrusting of his hips against hers, making a low satisfied sound somewhere between a purr and a growl at the increased friction.

“No!” Hermione hissed, trying and failing to close her widely-spread legs. “Merlin, are you a dog or a man? I said _no sex_ until I’ve talked to Blaise, and nothing you say or do will change my mind!”

“Nothing?” Draco teased, nuzzling his face against that sensitive spot on her neck and flicking at it with his tongue.

“N-n-no,” Hermione answered, trying to sound firm and commanding. “Nothing.”

“Hmm, what about if I do this?”

Hermione braced herself for an attack on her senses. Maybe he’d lick that spot on her neck again. Maybe he’d go for her nipple. Maybe he’d slide his cock inside her and hope it would feel so good that she wouldn’t have the willpower to tell him to pull it back out. The last thing she expected was for him to pull back…but that’s exactly what he did. Levering his body off of hers enough to allow him to turn, he twisted around to face the bedroom door.

“Well, lover, since it seems the fun can’t continue until you join us, why don’t you stop playing with yourself, and start playing with our girl, instead?”

Years of being friends with Harry and Ron, not to mention all too much time in the Gryffindor dorms, and the Burrow, and the Order headquarters around Fred and George had left Hermione pretty impervious to shock. Explosions didn’t faze her. Loud bangs or blasts barely made her blink. Blood, gore, bad language, bat-bogey hexes, and Ron’s spectacularly disastrous efforts to cook had no more effect on her than to make her whip out her wand, take care of all the damage, and deliver a blistering lecture to whoever had caused it. Nothing ever seemed to catch her truly off-guard. Well, nothing until she caught sight of Blaise Zabini standing naked in doorway, with his cock fully erect and pointed right at her.

It was a few seconds before she remembered to breathe. Putting aside the whole shock factor of powerful-wizard-watching-her-screw-his-boyfriend, there was also the fact that he looked absolutely _amazing_ naked. Watching his body while he and Draco fooled around had always made her a bit breathless, and she’d never before gotten such a perfect, uninterrupted full-frontal view. Merlin, he was gorgeous. He shouldn’t be allowed to wear clothes. Ever.

“Pretty, isn’t he?” Draco whispered in her ear. “And he feels even better than he looks.”

“And how about her, Malfoy?” Blaise drawled. “How does she feel?”

“Fucking amazing,” Draco smirked. “Now get your arse over here, so you can find out for yourself.”

“Gladly.”

Blaise practically _slithered_ across the floor in a movement much too smooth and predatory to be called walking, licking his lips as his eyes trailed over every exposed inch of her body. Hermione blushed bright red and snapped out of her daze.

“Stop!” she cried out. “Halt. Cease. Desist.” Her desperately confused eyes shifted back and forth from Draco to Blaise and back to Draco again. _“Explain.”_

Draco rolled his eyes. “What is there to explain? We want you; you want us. The only problem Blaise has with it is that he’s not inside you yet. Come to think of it, I’m having the same problem. So can we concentrate on those problems for now?” 

Blaise had reached the bed by now and had seated himself on the edge. Taking hold of her hand, he raised it to his lips for a soft kiss, before lowering it to rest on top of his erection. In spite of herself, Hermione couldn’t help stroking it softly, her breath catching slightly when it twitched with apparent pleasure at her touch. After a moment, her logical brain caught back up with her, and she pulled her hand away.

“I need to understand,” she stated as firmly as she could.

“Understand what?” Blaise asked, pushing aside the tangled sheets to make room for him to lie down next to Hermione.

“Understand how this happened! I need to understand why, out of the blue, the two of you woke up this morning and decided you liked me.”

“It didn’t happen this morning; we’ve liked you for a while,” Blaise insisted as he settled his body alongside hers. “I invited you to come and live with me. That wasn’t enough of a clue?”

“Terry was living here before me, and you didn’t like him.”

“True, but we needed him,” Draco interjected.

“Needed him?” Hermione asked. “For what? And could you stop that?” she asked, turning back to face Blaise who had been tracing ancient runes with the tip of his finger up and down her leg. 

“Draco has a head start,” Blaise explained. “I need to catch up.”

There was something wrong with that logic, but Hermione couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Her mind was too busy trying to think logically and process the pleasure of Blaise’s touch at the same time.

“What did you need Terry for?” she asked again.

“He and Patil gossiped like a pair of mother hens,” Blaise answered. “We probably know more about who’s sleeping with whom and who’s fighting with whom, and who’s up to something scandalous with whom in your little group of misfits than you know yourself. Most of it was extraordinarily distasteful—”

“I could have lived a long and happy life without hearing about the time Potter and his she-weasel got caught going at it in a public fountain,” Draco muttered.

“—but it kept us updated on what you were up to. Didn’t you wonder how I knew enough about Todd to have you invite him to join us that time we met for tea after you two moved in together? You certainly kept mentions of him to a minimum in your owl posts.”

“I had a feeling you wouldn’t like him,” Hermione replied weakly, remembering the one, disastrous time she had brought Todd with her to tea with Blaise. Blaise had had Draco with him, and the two of them had spent the entire time verbally eviscerating Todd in a light, “just joking, so you’re a cad if you take offense” kind of way. Hermione had spent the entire time red in the face from a combination of fury at the pair of Slytherins for attacking her lover in that way and…well…carefully suppressed but still unavoidable amusement at how _well_ they did it.

“We got along fine,” Blaise insisted breezily. “He showed what an uptight ass he was, and we showed how utterly unworthy he was of you. It was a delightful tea. I’d have been willing to have him over for a cuppa every week for such an opportunity. Maybe if he’d agreed to come more than just the once, you could have figured out how wrong he was for you sooner. Draco had a lovely fantasy of the two of you coming over for tea, Todd making an idiot of himself, as usual, you telling him the two of you were over, and then the three of us celebrating by gathering up all the jams and spreads from what was left of the tea, and licking them off of you, one by one.”

“Mmm, I loved that fantasy,” Draco purred, scooting his body closer to hers and starting to nuzzle her closest breast while his hand reached out to fondle the other one.

“Stop that!” Hermione snapped, slapping away his hand. “I told you I needed explanations first!”

“You’re letting him play,” Draco pouted, nodding over to where Blaise was still studiously tracing designs up and down her leg. “Best not start showing favoritism now, darling. It’ll only cause problems later. Besides, I’m just teasing a _little_. You’re a big girl; surely it takes more than a little teasing to distract you.”

Hermione knew he was trying to manipulate her with that challenge, but…well…he _did_ have a point. Neither he nor Blaise were doing anything all _that_ distracting. Their touches were very light and gentle, almost more exploratory than seductive, as if they were content just to learn her from head to toe. Simply because it felt really _really_ nice was no reason for her to lose her head over it.

“We might have overplayed our hand just a _tiny_ bit at that tea, though,” Blaise admitted, returning to the previous topic of conversation. “You barely mentioned Todd at all to me before that, but you _never_ mentioned him after it.”

“I could tell you didn’t like him,” Hermione retorted. “Why bring up what was obviously a touchy subject?”

“Of course we didn’t like him,” Draco snorted. “He had you, which meant that _we_ couldn’t have you. It was very frustrating. The only thing he ever did right was his timing. We were actually upset when Boot decided to move out, thinking we’d lost our best source of gossip on what you were up to, but he’d only been gone for two weeks when we got that post from you asking if you could move in.” 

“Manna from heaven,” Blaise stated, squeezing her calf affectionately. He had moved from tracing letters and symbols to giving her legs a gentle massage, easing away the strain of the frenzied sex she’d had with Draco, earlier. “We didn’t even have to scheme or plan or plot or do anything at all, and we still got you exactly where we wanted you.”

“ _Almost_ where we wanted you,” Draco interrupted. “I wanted to invite you to our bed right away, but Blaise here was too squeamish.”

“Not squeamish,” Blaise argued. “Just cautious. It’s not every girl who’d be up for a threesome. I knew you got turned on by watching the two of us, but that was no guarantee that you’d be willing to join in. Maybe boy-on-boy always turned you on, and it didn’t have anything to do with us, at all. That was the whole reason we made rule seven. We’d be fools not to latch on to any chance to have you, any way we could. Even though we both wanted you, it was still better for you to be with just one of us than to be with anyone else.”

Hermione couldn’t help but be rather flattered by the bit about rule seven, but her smile froze as all the rest of Blaise’s words kicked in. He’d said that he knew she got turned on by watching them. That meant that he knew about her habit of spying on them. And if he knew that it turned her on, then that meant that he knew that after watching them, she’d…she’d…

Letting out a cry of supreme humiliation, Hermione flipped her body over, burying her face in the pillow.

“Well, that’s not fair,” Draco frowned, running a hand over the smooth skin of her back and pouting at her posterior’s utter lack of breasts. “Blaise can still reach his toys, but you’ve taken mine away.” 

Pushing her hair out of the way, he lowered his face to the pillow next to hers, with his lips as close as they could get to her ear. “What is it, Granger?” he asked softly, continuing to stroke her back as soothingly as he could. “What did he say that got you so upset? You knew that both of us wanted you, that we wanted the three of us to be together, so that can’t be the problem.”

“Mfhew,” she mumbled, her words muffled by the pillow.

Draco looked over at Blaise to see if he had understood what she said, but he just shook his head. “Care to repeat that in English, love? I don’t speak Gobbledegook.

She lifted her face away from the pillow, but kept her eyes down, refusing to make any contact with either of them. “You knew,” she repeated softly. “You knew I was watching you and…and _wanting_ you, all that time.”

“Of course we knew you watched us,” Draco answered, not seeing where the problem was. “Why else would I let Blaise bend me over that hellishly uncomfortable sofa in that awful, drafty library when we had a perfectly warm, comfortable bed upstairs?”

“Because you’re an exhibitionist?” Hermione snapped, finally looking up at him.

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Draco admitted, “but just for the shock value. The only one I _wanted_ watching us was you. As if I’d want Potter checking out my arse!” Draco shuddered at the mere thought of it. “You think it’s an accident that he’s with a girl who has six brothers?”

“That’s not the point!” Hermione retorted then paused for a moment as his final sentence processed. “And eww.” She shook off the thought of Harry in some sort of menage-a-half-dozen and returned to the topic at hand. “You knew I was watching, and you knew how it made me react, which means you must have watched me while I…and…and you had no right!”

“It’s not as if we watched you all the time,” Draco argued. “Most of the time, you remembered to lock your door.” He grinned over at Blaise. “Remember that contest we used to have over which of us could come up with something to do or say that would get her turned on enough to forget her locking charms?” Blaise grinned back in spite of himself, but soon returned his focus to Hermione.

“And to be fair, love, you _did_ watch us first,” he added.

“If you wanted privacy, you shouldn’t have started shagging in plain sight!” Hermione retorted, as sharply as she could.

“We didn’t want privacy,” Blaise replied, slipping a hand under her chin and turning her face so that she’d have to look at him. “We just wanted you.”

“But why?” Hermione asked, her voice sounding almost pleading. “I just don’t understand _why_ you would want me, either of you—much less both of you.”

“Why is it so hard for you to believe that we want you?” Blaise countered.

“Because you’re _you_. _Both_ of you! You’re both so… I can’t even describe it! You’re everything. I didn’t know what it was _like_ to want someone until I started wanting both of you. And ever since then, all the things I’ve done, all the stupid choices I made, all the ways I’ve screwed up have been because I was grasping for whatever I could get since I couldn’t believe, could never _ever_ believe that I’d ever get a chance of having what I wanted.” 

She stopped when she realized she was on the verge of tears and took a few deep breaths to try to get herself under control. “You’re _you_ ,” she repeated, softly this time, her eyes staring into Blaise’s, and then turning to lock with Draco’s. “Both of you. You could have anyone you want. Why would you want me?”

Draco’s hands tangled in her hair, keeping her from turning away from him or looking down. “Because you’re you,” he answered with more sincerity than she’d ever seen him show before. “Because you’re you.” 

His lips locked onto hers, and Hermione wondered if she really _had_ started crying, because she suddenly felt like she was drowning. The feeling got stronger when Blaise plastered himself against her back, twisting her long hair up in his fingers to give him room to cover her neck and shoulders with warm, wet kisses while he whispered in her ear, telling her how much he wanted her, how much they needed her, how happy they could make her, if she’d just let them…let them take care of her, let them have her, let them keep her, forever. 

Draco kept her mouth far too busy for her to reply out loud, but Blaise got his answer when Hermione reached behind her to grab hold of his hand, squeeze it gently, and guide it around her body to rest on her inner thigh. He grinned and started squeezing, redoubling his kisses and rubbing his renewed erection against the cleft of her arse.

“Tell us you want this,” Draco growled as he began trailing kisses down the line of her throat. “Tell us you want us.”

“Want you…” Hermione gasped breathlessly. “Want this. Want…oh _yes_ …want all you can give me.”

“We can give you everything,” Blaise purred in her ear as his hand slid up from her thigh to her pussy. “Everything you need.” His fingers started rubbing against her, and he smirked in satisfaction when he felt her getting wetter with each stroke.

Draco, not surprisingly, had latched on to her breasts, manipulating one with his mouth and the other with his hand while his free hand slid down to toy with her cunt. While Blaise teased and fondled her clit, Draco’s finger circled her opening, stroking it until he could feel it contracting around him, trying to pull him in. He gave her what she wanted, sliding a long, dexterous finger inside and crooking it, rubbing it along her front wall until her gasp and shudder let him know he’d hit the right spot. Between Draco’s skilled finger and Blaise’s equally talented touch, Hermione didn’t take long to fall to pieces, screaming out a long string of obscenities while she struggled to hold on to consciousness. She’d be _damned_ if she’d black out again when consciousness was currently so…satisfying.

The second she regained enough control to move her hands, they slid immediately in front and behind her to latch on to a pair of equally rigid cocks. The orgasm, which had mostly faded, resurged for a moment just at the sheer pleasure of holding and touching them the way she’d never dared hoped she’d be allowed. Arching her back to thrust her breast further into Draco’s face, she lay her head back against Blaise’s shoulder, capturing his mouth in a breathless kiss. 

“Summon some lube,” she whispered when lack of air, made her pull away from his lips. “Now.” She ground her hips back against his erection, guiding the very tip against the crack of her arse and wriggling slightly to work it between her cheeks.

“A-are you sure?” Blaise stammered, his voice breaking in a way it hadn’t since he was fourteen. “We don’t…we don’t have to.”

“Oh yes, we do,” she purred. “ _I_ have to. I need you. Lube. Now.”

Thankfully, it was a spell he knew well enough to perform wandless and aroused half out of his mind. Blaise summoned the lube from his bedroom and opened it with shaking fingers. He was forced to close his eyes to keep from shooting his load when Hermione released his cock and used her free hand to partially spread her arse open for him.

One well-coated finger slid inside, penetrating her slowly. Too slowly. Hermione squirmed impatiently, causing her nipple to pull itself out of Draco’s mouth.

“As fun as it is to watch her bounce, mate,” Draco called out over her shoulder. “I think she’s ready to take a bit more.” Hermione nodded fervently in agreement, though she was panting too hard to speak for herself.

Another finger entered her, scissoring with the first to stretch her tight muscles, sliding in deeper when she squirmed against them some more. It was joined before long by a third.

“Now…you,” Hermione panted. “Inside.”

Blaise looked over her shoulder and locked eyes with Draco. “You first,” Blaise whispered, and Draco nodded, sliding his hands under Hermione’s thighs, lifting her just enough so that he could lower her slowly onto his erection. 

They both moaned as he seated him fully inside her, and in spite of her intention to stay still so Blaise could join them, Hermione couldn’t help raising and lowering herself a bit, “settling” herself in place, and relishing the rich friction of his cock filling her again. 

When she finally got herself under control, both hands slid back to hold her cheeks open. Gritting his teeth to steel his control, Blaise slid his fingers out of her and pushed his cock inside.

All three gasped, and both wizards firmly gripped Hermione’s hips, keeping her from moving around and severing the fragments that remained of their self-control. Once they got a hold of themselves, their eyes met again over her shoulder, and time they wore matching ear-to-ear grins as they nodded at each other…and began to move.

Hips back, then forward, leaving her empty one moment, and then tightly, blissfully full of both of them the next. Back, then forward. Out, then in. Slow at first, then faster, and faster, and faster. Their bodies pinned her tightly between them, but as sweat began to cover the three bodies, slick skin on slick skin gave her enough lubrication to squirm and writhe and wriggle herself against both of them. She rode them as hard as the position allowed, whimpering and begging and cursing both of them as she squeezed every bit of pleasure she could out of the unbelievable fulfillment of her ultimate fantasy. There was only one element missing.

“Kiss,” she gasped, sliding one hand behind her and one hand in front of her to wrap around the back of their necks, pushing them toward each other. “Want to watch…you kiss, up close and…and close, with…both of you…inside me.”

Not needing any more encouragement, Blaise slammed his lips onto Draco’s and thrust his tongue inside. Draco kissed back just as fiercely, sliding one hand off of Hermione’s hip to grip the back of Blaise’s neck, his hand resting on top of Hermione’s.

Hermione, meanwhile, was basking in bliss so intense, she was surprised her brains weren’t leaking out of her ears. Watching them kiss, with both of them fucking her hard, with her face close enough to…

She leaned forward, wrapping her tongue around the place where their mouths were joined, while shoving her free hand down between her legs to brush up against her clit.

That was all it took.

She screamed fit to wake the dead _two counties over_ as her orgasm crashed into her hard enough to break the world apart. If Blaise and Draco hadn’t been holding her so tightly, she was sure she would have shattered completely.

Not surprisingly, she pulled them both over the edge with her, and they clung to each other, trembling from head to toe, for an eternity or so until they collapsed sideways to sprawl across the bed and try to remember how to breathe.

Hermione summed it up for all of them.

“Wow.” Twisting slightly, she lay on her back between her new lovers and blinked dazedly at the ceiling. “I didn’t know it could…it’s never been…I…wow.”

“Articulate…as always…Granger,” Draco managed to gasp out in reply. “Must say…quite a set…of lungs you’ve…got. ’tween Quidditch match ’n this…I’m ’mazed you’ve…got a voice left.”

Eyes going wide with shock, Hermione immediately sat bolt upright. “Quidditch match! Oh no!”

Draco groaned and rolled over to his side. “She’s not human,” he complained. “How can she have…energy, when my bones’ve been…transfigured into flobberworms?”

“I have to go!” Hermione squeaked. “The Weasleys; they’ve been waiting for me! I’m supposed to go celebrate Ron’s win with them!” She tried to climb over Blaise to get out of bed, but was stopped when a pair of arms, belonging to Blaise, locked themselves around her waist.

“They’re Weasleys; they’ll be celebrating for hours,” he told her as he lay her back down and tucked her against his chest. “It’s what they do. We have plenty of time for a nice nap before you go join them.” 

“But I promised them I’d go join them as soon as I got changed.”

“You took off the clothes you were wearing before,” Blaise argued, “and you haven’t put any other clothes on yet. So you’re still not changed. You haven’t broken your promise. You’ll join them as soon as you’re dressed,” Blaise promised. “But you’re not dressed yet.” 

“That’s splitting hairs,” Hermione argued, but she sounded as if she was willing to be persuaded.

“You have lots of hairs,” Blaise replied sleepily, shifting her body up against his so he could nuzzle his face into the curve of her neck. “We can afford to split one or two of them.” Hermione snorted, but he could feel her resolve caving as she snuggled a little closer to him.

“Well, maybe I _could_ wait just a little longer…”

“They’ll never know the difference,” Draco agreed. “We’ve all seen how insane Weasley celebrations can be.”

“Besides, you’ll be no good for celebrating until you’ve gotten some rest,” Blaise reminded her.

Blushing, Hermione had to admit to herself that her legs were unsteady to the point where she wasn’t sure she could stand at _all_ , much less stand through a Weasley celebration.

“All right then,” she conceded, settling back against the pillows. “Just a little nap, and then I’ll go once I wake up…as long as Harry doesn’t wake me by flooing like he did this morning,” she remembered with a grimace of distaste. “Woke me from the most delicious dream…”

Draco perked up a bit at that and propped himself up on his elbow to lean closer to her. “And just what exactly did you dream about?” he purred, tracing a finger over the love bite he’d left on her neck.

“Pretty much exactly what we just did,” Hermione answered, blushing fiercely.

“Hear that, Zabini?” Draco preened. “We’re a fantasy come true. And speaking of fantasies…” Draco’s eyes sparkled. “Now that you’re in this with us, you’re subject to our rules, you know,” he teased. “Rule one: All fantasies must be shared.”

Hermione shoved him playfully. “You’re just hoping that we’ll get to act out your fantasy of the tea spreads now.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” he replied with a lecherous smirk, looking so adorable that Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, even as she threw a pillow at him.

“Best not give up your pillow so willingly,” Blaise warned her as he watched the pair of them, grinning. “He hogs them, you know.”

“However will we retaliate?” Hermione questioned, grinning back.

“Hmm, perhaps I’ll hog the girl?” Blaise suggested, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close while he used the other hand to tuck some blankets around the two of them.

“As if I’d let you get away with that,” Draco snorted, snagging an arm around Hermione’s waist and positioning her between them, cuddled between two strong bodies.

Blaise laughed. “Fine with me. I don’t mind sharing with you, as long as you understand that I, for my part, have no intention of ever letting go.”

“Makes two of us,” Draco mumbled, closing his eyes, but keeping his hand drifting up her torso until it closed over a breast.

“Fond of those, aren’t you?” Hermione snarked.

“Fond of all of you,” Draco replied through a yawn.

“This time yesterday, I wouldn’t have been able to say for sure that either of you really liked me at all,” Hermione sighed.

“Zabinis do not _like_ anyone,” Blaise corrected, wrapping an arm across both of his lovers. “There’s the whole of the world that I manage to tolerate, and there’s the two of you. Whom I love.”

“Love you, too,” Hermione whispered in a somewhat choked voice.

“Love you both,” Draco added, his slurred voice showing he was already half asleep. “Enough mushiness. Sleep now. Rest. Play with tea spreads when we wake up.”

“Play with _Weasleys_ when we wake up,” Hermione corrected. 

Draco’s eyes stayed closed, but he made a face at that reminder. “We’ll go with you,” he stated. “They hate us; they’ll let you go early to get rid of us.”

“Randy lot of tossers,” Blaise added. “Breed like rabbits. As if we’d throw our girl in with that lot without us there. Stuck with us you are, my love, whether you like it or not. It’s the three of us now, no matter what your aggravating little friends think of it.”

Hermione smiled to herself as her eyes slipped closed. The three of them sounded absolutely perfect to her. Just before she drifted off to sleep, Hermione made a mental note to add one final item to her never-again list.

Rule twenty-nine: Never be alone again.

THE END


End file.
